


Temptation

by rosemarydreams



Series: Tachycardia [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, First Meetings, M/M, Vampire AU, Vampire Bard, Vampire!Bard, a bit of a relationship forms by the end, but it is still in the grey area, no less fluffy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemarydreams/pseuds/rosemarydreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard the bargeman did not consider himself to be special by any means. That, however, was far from the truth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation

As night falls upon the Mirkwood forest, underneath the stars and deep within the thick woods, is a lone deer that darts through the trees as it flees for its life; for it has found itself to be prey tonight, to a beast that is unlike any of the predators native to the forest. The silhouette of a man pursues the path of the deer, chasing after it at speeds that could not be humanly possible—- for he is, in fact, something other than a human. Effortlessly he follows the trail of his prey, dodging trees and not wavering in a single step, as though his path were memorized; as though, this were a regular occurrence for him.

When he finally catches up to the fearful animal, he very easily overpowers it, grabbing it by its slender neck, and toppling it down to the forest floor with a loud ‘thud’. The deer struggles in his grasp; so, in order to immobilize it to make his task of feeding much easier, the man snaps the poor creature’s neck with one swift twist of his grasp, and when the animal’s erratic movements come to a very sudden halt, he wastes no time in sinking his fangs into the exposed flesh of the deer.  
His eyes feel as though they could roll back into his head, out of the sheer ecstasy that overcomes him as soon as he obtains the first taste of blood on his parched tongue, only for the smooth warmth to run down his throat, and amplify the feeling tenfold. It is nothing compared to human blood—- that of which he has not had the pleasure of tasting ever since his wife had passed—- but it would suffice to quench his thirst for another week, or maybe even two. It wasn’t every day that the blood drinker was able to catch a meal of this size; tonight, he had gotten lucky.

However, as soon as he was just about finished draining the blood of the dead deer, it would seem that his luck was just about to run out. As he still reveled in his animalistic nature for a remaining short few moments, his heightened sense of hearing caught a hold of something distant in the night; voices, speaking in a language that he did not understand, and very, very distant, and quieted, footsteps—- as though whatever else had joined him in the forest could be completely silent, if they wanted to. The blood drinker came to the most obvious conclusion: elves.

He had his suspicions for awhile now, that the Mirkwood elves were on his trail—- they were not daft creatures by any means, having lived in this forest far longer than he had been hunting in it, it was only a matter of time before they’d realize that some sort of monster was eating away at the fauna in their woods, and leaving evidence by the means of two puncture wounds in the neck of those that had fallen prey to this unknown beast.

And so, the blood drinker stood up, wiped the blood trailing down his lips with the back of his hand, and he promptly fled the scene. There was no point in staying any longer, for now that he was in his right mind once more, coming down rather swiftly from the high that had been caused by his need to hunt, he realized there was absolutely no way he’d be able to take on a group of elves in battle. He had no weapons on him except for his bare hands, and there was no way he’d bare his fangs to them—- he may have been a monster, but he wasn’t that much of one.

When he returns to his small home in his hometown among the lake, he’d see that his children were put to bed—- likely by his oldest, who had the tendency to take over the parental duties of the house while he was out; and when he became like this, the timespan that defined ‘out’, for him, was sometimes rather hard to predict. He looks around his house as he enters, as though he were suspicious of his own domain. Sneaking past his daughter, who seemed to be washing dishes in the kitchen, and up the stairs quickly and quietly, he retreats into his bedroom, and removes his blood-stained clothes, hiding the evidence away. Whether it would be seen again to be cleaned of the red stains, was still to be determined.

That night, when he lie awake in his bed, the guilt of what he had done, and what he had become, finally began to creep up on him. Until sleep clouded up his vision and sent him to rest, he really, and truly, felt like a monster.

———————————————————-

Bard the bargeman did not consider himself to be special by any means.

He lived a simple life; he had a wife, once, and she blessed him with three beautiful, healthy children. He lives with them in a small town that is constantly plagued by the smell of fish; however, with the town residing in the middle of a lake, one would assume that the stench would come as a given—- and by no means was the fishiness the most unflattering thing about living in Laketown. Under the tyranny of the Master, most of the town’s residents suffered from varying degrees of poverty, and Bard’s household was no exception to this rule—- especially given his unfortunate ancestry. The Master seemed intent on giving him hell for this undeniable truth.

When his wife passed away, Bard vowed to always put his children first—- but being a single parent of three was, no doubt, tough work indeed. His oldest daughter, Sigrid, honored her mother’s investments in their family, by taking up most of the household tasks that she had been given previously. However, it killed Bard to see his daughter trying to fulfill the role of a matriarch of the household, at such a young age. He took it upon himself to take up some odd jobs, as well as help out with chores and household duties in general, in order to ease a bit of the workload for Sigrid. If anyone was going to be the parental unit in his family, it would have to be him, and he refused to see it any other way, as much as his daughter insisted.

Secondly, he placed his priorities in his fellow townspeople. He didn’t see himself as anything but of equal status to his neighbors, and felt it be necessary to give them aid where aid is needed. He noticed that it was due to this, that the Master’s spies may have been keeping an eye on him moreso than usual, perhaps under the impression that he was trying to get in the good graces of the townspeople by giving them food or lending them pocket change every now and then, in order to organize some sort of uprising against the Master. As much as he disliked that man, Bard was, by no means, organizing a rebellion. He simply didn’t have the time to do so.

Overall, he considered himself to be a simple man, who lived a simple life. Once a week, he would travel to the river bank to pick up the barrels delivered by the Elves, and he did this job not because he enjoyed it, for it was tedious and monotonous—- but he did it because it paid well enough to keep his family sustained. It was a very simple job, for a very simple man, living a very simple life in a very simple town.

Except, in all truth, Bard was far from simple.

He hated to admit it; it was a secret kept even from his own children, though he supposed they knew of it already—- it was hard to keep anything from them, even if it went unspoken for years. It was obvious by the odd sharpness of his canine teeth that Bard was something other than human. Somewhere, deep in his ancestry, the blood of Vampires lingered, and Bard just so happened to, unfortunately, inherit some of this blood.

Being half human, half blood drinker came with its perks, as well as its downsides. Unlike full-blooded vampires, the sunlight did not burn him—- however, he still preferred cloudy days to those filled with bright sunshine, and perhaps, that is why he was able to bare living in the foggy Laketown for so long. Unlike a true vampire, his lifespan was not extended; rather, it was that of a mortal man, and similar to a mortal man, he was able to sustain himself with human food.  
But the thirst was still there. It was always there.

True, it was not as intense as a regular blood drinker’s thirst would be—- Bard had the privilege of being able to last up to several weeks, or even an entire month without feeding, before the urge became so unbearable, that it’d take over his very being, carve and mould his every action into that of a monster’s. Even if his need to hunt wasn’t as dire, he still found it to be a nuisance in his everyday life, wondering why he couldn’t just live without the looming possibility that, if he were to stave off the hunt for too long, that one drop of blood from an unsuspecting bystander could turn him into an uncontrollable savage. He hated that side of himself, and wished he could simply will it to be gone.

When Bard’s wife was still with him, she knew of his secret, and fully accepted him for who he was. She even allowed him to feed off of her regularly, so he would not have to burden himself with going out to hunt, and then struggling to cover it up, later on. However, she then began to fall ill over time, and Bard refused to drink from her, believing himself to be even more of a burden on her weary and weak body. When she passed, nothing was good anymore. Nothing was the same.

He began to see his job as an opportunity to escape into the forest and hunt. He’d bring his bow along, not only for self defense purposes, but in order to catch a meal, as well. He was skilled enough with his bow, that he was able to shoot a bird or two dead, right off of the branches of the trees that they lingered upon. Sometimes, he’d be able to catch a rabbit that wandered too far from the woodlands, despite the impeccable speeds that the prey animal could achieve. Indeed, despite being half of a monster, Bard liked to keep his hunting civilized, and he rarely resorted to the more animalistic side of him, unless it was absolutely necessary—- or, perhaps, unless he simply could not help it.

The latter is what happened the night previous. Bard had been avoiding going out to hunt lately, as he began to notice that the Master’s spies seemed to be keeping an eye on him moreso than usual, probably beginning to notice that his trips to the river bank were taking longer than usual. On top of that, he had assumed that the elves were on his trail as well, only to have his suspicions confirmed that night. All of this stressed him out far too much to even think about his thirst, not even for a second—- and he was doing well, that is, until, his youngest daughter, Tilda, got a paper cut while reading. The sight and smell of the tiniest drop of blood oozing out of her finger nearly had him in a frenzy, and that was when he knew he had to leave and hunt—- if he were to put it off any longer, it would put those around him, those he cared for, in danger.

It was the dawn of a new day, as he sailed out towards the river bank for his day job once again, and he recollected on the events that took place the night before. He felt satisfied, having been able to rely on his true nature for the first time in a very long while, and thus, being able to catch a larger meal than usual—- but he also felt ashamed. Ashamed that he almost considered feeding off of his own daughter, and ashamed that, try as he may, he couldn’t control who he really was.

Arriving at the river bank, he got out of his boat, bow and arrows strapped firmly to his person, and he glanced up the river, and towards the dense woods. The barrels had already started rolling in, and when they did, one by one did he trudge into the river after them, and pull them onto his boat with strong arms, for this sort of work was physically taxing. Needless to say, it had practically become a reflex for him to perform his work almost effortlessly, and he needn’t put a second thought into it. All the while, the bargeman delved in his thoughts.

 _Perhaps, I should ration more effectively…_ He thought to himself, as he loaded barrel after barrel onto his barge. Bard thought that maybe, every once in awhile, he could drink from the fish that delved in the lake surrounding his home—- however, they were small, and their blood was weak, and probably tasted worse than their flesh did (even when cooked!). He didn’t want to bother wasting his time on them, but he knew he’d need to find some way to drink, without harming too many of the fauna in the forest, if he were to have any hope of getting the elves off his back—- but also, he’d need to find a way to drink more often, so he wouldn’t put it off for so long, so as to go into yet another frenzy, out of his control. Truly, it was a conundrum that Bard just couldn’t find his way around.

He went on like this for several minutes—- absorbed in his thoughts loading barrels onto his boat—- and just as he were nearly done with his work, and about to set off towards Laketown once more, he heard a noise. A rustling sound, coming from the forest behind him—- and the movements were so practiced and predictable, that they could not have been anything coming from an animal of any sort. A man? Or an Elf? He thought, but either way, he felt threatened—- nothing good could come out of his forest, and he whipped around immediately to face whatever was creeping up behind him, bow and arrow in hand. He couldn’t afford to be hesitant, not with a potential threat.

He slowly lowered his bow at the sight of what he was met with—- his suspicions were confirmed that this being was not an animal; rather, Bard was greeted by the sight of an elf, standing a safe distance away from him and lingering beneath the trees. Most importantly, they appeared to be unarmed, and Bard felt a twinge of guilt for assuming the worst, as he lowered his weapon. Oddly enough, the elf did not look the least bit surprised at his actions—- their gaze void of any readable emotion.

Bard felt it was only courteous to apologize. “Sorry,” He offered, as he turned away from the elf, possibly out of shyness, “I mean no harm; I thought you were here to kill me.” And Bard mentally kicked himself for letting that last bit slip out so easily from his mouth. He felt rude, realizing he could have minced his words, sugar coated his statement, just a tiny bit. But he was a blunt man by nature—- to be otherwise would be unnatural and nearly impossible for him.

The elf said nothing for a very long while—- what seemed like forever, although it may have only been a few moments. Slowly, they approached the bargeman, stepping gracefully out from beneath the trees as though they were walking on nothing but air. With the shadows masking their features gone, Bard could make out more masculine features on the elf’s face, though it was hard to tell man apart from woman, with those ethereal, androgynous creatures. Still, Bard was stricken cold by the elf’s icy gaze, accentuated by his dark, defined eyebrows. His long, silver hair fell smoothly over his shoulders, which were adorned with only the finest of clothes—- a grey robe that fell past the elf’s feet, and upon his arms was a sash of a deep red.

As Bard processed the sight before him, the feeling of being threatened was rapidly replaced by a feeling of being completely, and utterly, enamored. However, he also happened to wonder why such an unreal beauty would suddenly take interest in an unkempt man, as himself? He was dressed in his usual garb, that of which could almost be considered rags, not to mention that he probably smelled like fish, up close—- so why had he found himself being approached by this elf?  
Before he could even realize it, said elf was now standing right in front of him, a mere few inches from his own being, and he looked briefly up and down Bard’s person, before speaking—- his deep, velvety sounding voice anchoring the bargeman down to reality once more.

"And why," The elf began, with a tilt of his head, "Would I have any reason to do that?"

Bard met the elf’s gaze once more, until the coolness of it caused him to feel very, very shy, once again. He averted his eyes. “I always assume that, only the worst,” And he glanced briefly over the elf’s shoulder, towards the forest, “Could come out of those woods.” If not a meal, he continued in his head.

The elf smirked, and let out a low, melodious tone that could only be a chuckle, and by Valar, if his voice didn’t sound like the smoothest of velvet, then Bard did not have a word for what sort of music it was to his ears. Before he knew it, the elf was circling him—- for it seemed that, despite his movements being kept slow, and graceful as ever, they still felt as though they were too fast and exact, for Bard to process them. Or, perhaps, he was just flustered?

When the elf spoke again, he nearly hadn’t expected it. “And you assume that I am not the worst?” He asked, almost as though he were mocking the bargeman.  
Bard was confused at this remark, at first. “You are unarmed.” He pointed out.

"Indeed, I am," The elf answered, "However," And he was in front of Bard again, after having circled around him once, "You are a man, and I am an elf; and, given what I assume your age may be, you should be very well aware that I could easily overpower you, armed or not."  
Bard began to feel uneasy, deep down, but he refused to let it show on his being. Instead, he offered the elf a smirk, before daring to walk away from his glance. “I also know your kind well enough to know, that if you wanted me dead, you’d have done it by now.” He stated.

Despite not looking directly at the elf, Bard could almost hear the grin on his voice. “Most would not dare to speak to an elf, in such a manner.” He said.

Bard chuckled. “I am not ‘most’,” He said, although he still felt as though that was an understatement—- given his nature—- as well as an overstatement, given the way he perceived himself to be. “However,” He continued, his voice straining just the tiniest bit as he climbed onto his barge, while speaking, “I am but an ordinary man,” He turned to face the elf once more, once on his boat, and he gestured to his surroundings, “Just trying to get by.” He said.

The elf tilted his head, “Is that why you occupy yourself with a such a task?”

Bard shrugged, “It pays well. Besides, you’ve got work to do, mouths to feed, as well, don’t you?” He asked, for he assumed that the elf was probably several years his superior—- possibly even hundreds, or thousands. Most immortal beings tended to have large numbers of years behind them, and lots of experience to come with it. Bard couldn’t doubt that this elf must have seen work, before.

Nevertheless, his reply was peculiar. He nodded, “I do, and I understand your plight, to some degree,” He reasoned, “However, it is different, between you and I…” He trailed off, glancing at the floor.

Bard raised an eyebrow. This elf was not too good with casual conversations—- it was almost as though he hadn’t bothered with engaging in them in quite some time. “Do you get out of that forest, often?” Bard asked.

The question seemed to grab the elf’s attention, and his blue-eyed gaze was fixed on Bard once more, looking inquisitive. He made no reply, however.  
Bard spoke again. “You seem shy, almost.”

The elf’s brow furrowed in an unreadable emotion—- something that may have been mild disgust, that such a remark was made so bluntly about his behavior. “I do not occupy myself with mortal men, all too often.” He stated.

"Ah," Bard said, and he took to a more relaxing position, sitting just off of the edge of his boat, and resting his head on one of his knuckles. "At a loss for words, then?"  
The lack of a reply from the elf made the answer all too obvious to Bard. Either that, or the elf thought too highly of a mortal such as the bargeman, that he need not bother with words, around him.

Either way, Bard was a little bit willing to pester the elf some more, so long as he lingered here and appeared to take interest in him. Doing so would take Bard’s mind off of his uneasy thoughts—- and also, talking to the elf was something new, and different, and given the bargeman’s tedious work, he probably needed that sort of refreshment. “Do you have a name?” He asked.

The elf simply nodded. “And what of yours?” He asked, in return.

"I’m Bard," the bargeman replied, "And you?"

To that, the elf smirked, and turned around towards the forest. “You may come to find out, in due time, Bard the bargeman.” He replied, as he retreated into the woods.  
Bard furrowed his brow at such a cryptic reply, and he found himself wordless at the elf’s sudden departure. As he got to his feet, and began to set sail once more, the bargeman pondered on those words. The silver-haired elf worded his statement as though the two of them were to meet again—- and at the mere thought, Bard felt his heart almost flutter out of nervousness and excitement to see that ethereal creature once more.

"I’ll pry that name out of you one of these days…" Bard muttered to himself, as he made his way towards Laketown, barrels in tow.

——————————————————-

When Bard arrived for his job at the same spot by the river bank the following week, the elf he had met before was nowhere to be seen. As he got off his barge and landed on both feet with a soft thud, he glanced around, raising an eyebrow. Had he hallucinated the entire encounter? Was the silver being just another mind trick that the forest had taken to playing on unsuspecting men, who dare venture near it? No, it could not have been—- the events were far too vivid in Bard’s mind.

The bargeman simply shrugged, and proceeded to his work as the barrels rolled down the river, as if on cue. As he worked, he pondered the encounter, and figured that, maybe an immortal being, such as that nameless elf, had grown bored of toying with a mortal man rather quickly, and had decided not to bother with it a second time. Bard figured that the elves had more important matters to occupy themselves with, especially given the current state of their forest home. Albeit, in those regards, perhaps he could be considered one of those matters…

Bard shook his head, attempting to rid himself of those sorts of thoughts as he continued working, but the guilt of his monstrous nature was already beginning to creep in, as it tended to do so while he was alone. He sighed as he lifted the last few barrels up into his barge, and almost longed for the elven stranger to return—- it wasn’t as though he considered them to be friends already, after having met briefly for only one day—- but rather, he felt as though he longed for some sort of presence—- any, really, to distract him from his guilt-ridden thoughts.

Just as he was about to hop back onto his boat, and sail off into the river once more, Bard heard a rustling noise behind him—- and almost thought it too good to be true, as he silently cursed under his breath. If it was the elf, creeping up behind him as he had done so the week previous, had he been watching Bard this entire time? Why had he chosen now, when Bard was about to leave, to come out of hiding? Tricky elf Bastard… Bard thought to himself.

However, if it was not the elf behind him, right now, then Bard was in trouble. He had his bow on him, and he could easily put to death whatever fell being had crawled out of the woods to make him into prey—- but, after what had happened last week, Bard decided to not even bother reaching for his bow, even if it meant his life was at stake. It was not the wisest decision on his part, by far, but nevertheless, he hesitantly turned around to face whoever, or whatever, it was that had decided to bother him today.

He almost heaved a sigh of relief when he was greeted with the sight of the silver elf standing not too far from him, and Bard could have sworn that he appeared just as he did the week previous—- right down to his outfit. Then again, elves were so unchanging, and unwavering in their appearance, that the bargeman would not really be surprised.

Just as before, it was Bard who spoke first. “Have you been watching me this whole time?” He inquired.

No reply. Typical, Bard thought angrily to himself, and then he spoke again.

"Well?" He asked, "Aren’t you going to say anything—-"

"Thranduil."

Bard was left speechless for a moment, at the strange interruption that otherwise would not have meant anything to him, except to catch his interest and ponder what that word meant, although, with one glance into the elf’s icy stare, he had a feeling he already knew. “Is that—-?”

"My name." The elf, Thranduil, confirmed.

Bard glanced at the ground. “Okay,” He said, and then stepped a few paces closer towards the elf, “Why did you decide to tell me now, an entire week after we’d first encountered each other?” He asked, and he gestured to his surroundings, “What’s different?”

Thranduil looked at Bard, he tilted his head ever so slightly, and he gave him what seemed to be a hint of a smirk, before speaking again, “After I had left you to your duties, I had decided that I would properly introduce myself to you the day that you could face me without raising your bow.”

 _Oh._ “Oh.” Bard replied, but on the inside, he was somewhat peeved at the elf’s supposed tendency to live his entire damn life in riddles. “Well,” Bard began, looking into Thranduil’s icy gaze with his darkened one, “I should inform you that, by mortal standards, at least, we still are not properly introduced.”

"Oh?" Thranduil inquired.

"I still know nothing about you, aside from your name." Bard stated in a rather straightforward manner.

Thranduil nodded, “True.” He offered in reply, accompanied by nothing more.

There was an awkward silence between the two, lasting for a few moments, until Bard tilted his head quizzically and spoke again. “Well?” He questioned, “Are you going to tell me more about yourself?”

And to that, the elf only smirked, and turned on his heel towards the forest, once more, leaving Bard horrendously unsatisfied.

The bargeman was close to throwing a fit, right then and there. He stomped his foot on the ground in anger, as soon as the elf had walked a few feet away. “Oh, to Hell with it!” Bard exclaimed, “Is this another thing that I’ll be learning ‘in due time’? Unlike you, I haven’t got all the time in the bloody world!”

Fueling his growing rage even moreso, he heard the elf chuckle, and Bard assumed that a mortal’s rage was merely entertainment, for him. He opened his mouth to speak, until he was interrupted by the deep and serious tone of the elf. “Perhaps,” Thranduil began, and Bard quieted down immediately to listen, “You could say, it is temptation.”

Bard raised an eyebrow. “To lead me back here, to meet you again?” He asked, though, he did not entirely understand the point of that—- regardless to whether he wanted to be here or not, it was Bard’s job to be here. What exactly was this elf trying to prove? What point was he trying to make?

Thranduil only glanced back at him, and gave a nod in his direction. “Besides,” He said, as he began walking towards the forest again, “I sense you are in need of the company. There is a quality of loneliness about you…”

Bard stood there, speechless for a moment, before giving an exasperated sigh. Curse elves, and their ability to read others so easily, all the while keeping their own emotions in check so effortlessly, as though they were locked up in some sort of metaphorical safe. Bard turned around, and hopped back onto his boat to set sail—- when he glanced towards the forest, Thranduil was facing in his direction, from beneath the shadows of the trees.

Bard felt it was only polite to offer a proper goodbye, despite the mild irritation that the elf had put him through. He raised an arm to wave, and called out, “You’ve got a lovely name, by the way!” Possibly, the bargeman chose to say that as a last minute attempt to have the composed elf frazzled.

Perhaps, if the blood-drinker inside Bard was closer to the elf, in that moment, he’d have been able to smell the slightest hint of red tint the elf’s face.

————————————————————————

The two of them continued like that for several weeks, meeting up at that same spot on the river bank, exchanging small talk, and blossoming into what could only be called acquaintances. Over the coming next few days, Bard quickly became accustomed to the snide remarks and holier-than-thou attitude that the elf constantly handed him, and in return, the bargeman would come up with crude retorts in return.

One day, when he and Thranduil were conversing as usual—- the usual being, Thranduil giving him absolute hell while he was attempting to do his job, and Bard taking a verbal swing at him as response—- Bard began to notice that the elf would only fall silent to his jabs, and smirk, or even chuckle. He seemed to have enjoyed it, and Bard quickly became curious as to why.

After he had stacked the last few of the barrels onto his boat, he suddenly turned towards Thranduil, and leaned against the edge of the boat in a pose ready for casual conversation. “Is this different, to you?” Bard asked.

Thranduil looked at him and narrowed his eyes, questioningly. “How do you mean?” He asked.  
Bard shrugged, “I’m under the impression that you are a man who faces far too much adoration,” He started, and he looked Thranduil directly in the eye, “Or, far too little.”

Thranduil averted his gaze in a manner that almost looked shy, and he nodded, “I will admit, our interactions are something that I seldom experience anymore, on a regular basis.” He looked at Bard, and gave him a grin that looked a little bit sad. “You treat me as an equal. It is…” He paused, as he tried to find the correct words to articulate his statement, “Refreshing, I suppose…”

Bard fell silent, not knowing how to reply, but on the inside he felt a twinge of happiness; could this be the beginning of a friendship, between an elf, and a man? Let alone, a man such as Bard, of all people? Despite how much of a nuisance the elf could sometimes be towards him, during the short time that he had encountered him—- and, despite how well Bard seemed to have been able to return those nuisances, the elf stayed, all the while, and this ignited a flame within Bard that he was certain had gone out; a desire to be close to someone, to have a shoulder to lean on, to tell secrets to… He hadn’t had that sort of pleasure in awhile.

And considering how the elf seemed to act around him, and considering the sadness in his attempt at a smile, Bard assumed that Thranduil had not had that sort of joy in his life for even longer, given the lifespan of his kin.

Bard climbed onto his boat with one swift, practiced hop, and he gestured for Thranduil to join him on the boat, so that they could talk more. Thranduil approached the barge, but he required Bard’s assistance climbing up onto it, as he struggled to do so as effortlessly as the bargeman had, with the long, ornate gowns he wore. Grabbing onto the gown with one hand, and onto Bard’s hand with the other, he pulled himself onto the boat without any further damage. Bard envied that, even with his struggles, such as the wobbliness in his step as he attempted to regain his balance on the boat, Thranduil managed to remain as graceful as ever—- as most elves should.

Bard raised an eyebrow, and looked Thranduil up and down. “You should dress more appropriately, for ventures such as these.” He stated, “Can’t be worrying about the condition of your gown all the damn time, you know.”

Thranduil looked mildly offended, for a moment, “I have a reason to dress in such a manner,” He stated, with a frown, “Besides, you make me sound so superficial, when you put it that way…” He mumbled, sounding a bit disgruntled.

Bard chuckled, “I feel as though my judgment is not misplaced,” He said, with a smirk, _“Princess.”_ He added, if only to piss the elf off.

It seemed to work, for Thranduil’s gaze wavered, and his eye twitched in what may have been the closest attempt to anger that his emotionless expression would allow. He composed himself within a few seconds, however, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, bargeman,” He said, pacing backwards to sit onto a barrel, criss-crossing his legs and making himself comfortable as though Bard were to keep him here for awhile, “Am I correct to assume that, most of your fellow men in Laketown may hold you in ill favor, for it?”

Bard thought about the question for a moment, leaning against the side of the boat and looking down into the river beneath them. “Some, but not all. My men realize it is in my nature to offer a bit of sass, every now and then, however…” He sighed deeply, and shut his eyes, “One man in particular does not take kindly to my presence. The Master of Laketown, to be more specific.”

Thranduil listened to Bard’s plight intently, tilting his head and nodding at all the right parts, and he did not speak again until Bard had explained himself. “I know of this Master,” The elf said, “I have had the… _Pleasure,_ of meeting with him, several times.” He put an emphasis on the word ‘pleasure’ that made it seem to carry a hint of sarcasm, to which Bard could not help but smirk at. He met Thranduil’s gaze again, and the elf spoke, “I assume you do not take kindly to him, either?” He asked, and he worded his question as though he were to add, ‘I know I would not,’ to the end of it.

Bard paused for a moment, before nodding slowly, “I will admit, his prejudice towards my family and I, it had always left me with bitterness…” He trailed off, before glancing to Thranduil, as though to see if the elf had anything to offer, or if he could be granted permission to continue speaking. The elf simply looked at him with a wide, curious blue gaze, listening intently all the while. And so, Bard let out an agonized sigh, and looked off into the distance, where a lonely mountain peak could be seen among the river, and through the trees. “I have the misfortune of being a direct descendent of Lord Girion. Surely you know of what happened—-“

"I do." The elf answered, and that was all the confirmation Bard needed, and silence fell between them once more. As Bard glanced away, he pondered the elf’s age, for a moment, soon realizing that he may have very well lived to see the battle between Smaug and the city of Dale, from start to finished. As he pondered this, he heard the elf climb off of the barrel he was perched upon, and walk steadily towards the man in front of him, Bard shivered as he heard a near whisper in his ear. "However, you are not your ancestors." Thranduil said, and Bard wanted to fall into a long embrace with the elf, and pour out all of his self loathing into him—- his ancestry was one thing to be ashamed of, but his true nature… Bard wanted, so badly, to have someone there for him, and Thranduil was the first to come for him in a long while, to ease the bad thoughts off of his mind, to provide something else, something that could, perhaps, anchor Bard back down to reality, to his humanity.

But, somehow, Bard kept himself composed. He only let out a shaky sigh and offered in reply, “Thank you, for understanding my plight.” And out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thranduil nod in return.

The elf stepped back from him, and his brow furrowed, possibly in an attempt to think of a change of subject. “You say you have a family,” Thranduil began again, and he looked at Bard and tilted his head, “Children?”

"Aye," Bard replied, and internally, he was thankful for the topic change, "Two daughters, and a son. No wife."

Thranduil raised a brow, “She has passed?” He inquired, and Bard only nodded softly. “My condolences,” He offered, though the statement had no true feeling to it, as though it were rehearsed, and Bard assumed that was only because, in his long lifespan, Thranduil may have had to say it far too many times for his liking—- and that thought hurt the bargeman’s heart to think about it, but he did not voice it, at all.

Instead, he shrugged. “Happens,” He said, and he simply left it at that, for he did not like to dwell on the subject of grief for longer than he needed to. He met Thranduil’s gaze. “What about you?”

Thranduil hesitated to answer at first, seeming slightly taken aback that Bard could offer him an inquiry so swiftly, however, he did not retreat from the question. “I have a son.” He stated.

Bard thought about this exchange, after receiving Thranduil’s reply. It was beginning to sink in that, over the several weeks that the two had known each other, the topic of family was never breached. It was strange, how little Bard still knew about Thranduil, and how his chest fluttered at the thought of growing to know more. However, he did not predict that his next question would cause the conversation to grow sour, very quickly. Bard leaned over towards Thranduil, and without a second thought, asked; “And, his mother?”

At that, Thranduil flinched away, and the most visible expression of sadness that Bard had seen on him so far, overcame his features in the blink of an eye. He fell silent, and only shook his head.

Bard felt he was right to assume that Thranduil was a widower, as well, and he backed off, inclining his head in a gesture of sorrow. “My condolences,” He offered, just as the elf had to him, moments ago, but when Thranduil remained silent, his gaze averted, Bard grew worried, very quickly. “Have I offended you?” Bard asked—- and it was one of the very rare times he would ask, given his snideness and crude jests towards the elf, that the two were reveling in not more than a few minutes earlier.

That question seemed to snap Thranduil back into reality, and he met Bard’s gaze very suddenly, before shaking his head. “No. No…” He assured in an attempt to melt the worried expression off of Bard’s face, and he glanced towards the floor, as though the elf found it rather interesting, all of a sudden. “It has been too long, for me to find any offense in that question.” He confessed sadly, and he let out a sigh, “I simply… Do not enjoy thinking about it, all too much.”

Bard nodded in understanding, and he put aside his crudeness to avoid questioning anything more. He had heard that elves loved more deeply than humans, and he was unsure as to what that meant, at first—- however, if Thranduil had been alone, without a wife, for as long as Bard assumed he was, then the elf was, perhaps, proof of that claim, if he still mourned over her just as much as he may have done so a hundred, or a thousand, years ago.

After that, the conversation between them dwindled down into near nothingness—- and as much as it pained Bard to do so, he offered that Thranduil return home to avoid any further bouts of depression. The elf’s emotionless gaze, and retorts, denied that he was harboring any sort of feeling that Bard had claimed he was, but nevertheless, and with the bargeman’s assistance, the elf climbed off of the boat and returned to the forest, bidding the man a goodbye as he disappeared between the trees.

And as Bard made his way towards Laketown, he realized that, perhaps, he was not the only one with sorrows to bear, and burdens to carry. Perhaps, Thranduil needed a shoulder to cry on as well, though, given the elf’s supposed introverted nature, Bard only assumed that he would never admit to this. Sailing down the river with little distraction except for his thoughts, Bard only realized he had not fed today, when he was halfway towards home.

However, oddly enough, he did not feel thirsty today. Not one bit.

————————————————————

That night, Bard was reminded of the perceptive nature of his children, when, among the silence that usually fell over the four when they had dinner, Sigrid had decided to break it by speaking.

First, the only sound that could be heard was the small ‘clink’ of her fork being placed on the table. She sat right across from her father, and eyed him—- to her left, Bain was ravenously eating, old enough to know how scarce a good meal was, among them, to not waste a single bite. To her right, Tilda was picking at her food, but not eating much, for she was still too young to understand just how much they needed to ration. Meanwhile, Sigrid had finished her meal quickly, possibly so she could grab her father’s attention. “Da?” She asked.

That seemed to catch his attention well enough, and Bard’s eyes darted up from his plate to look at his eldest. He set his silverware down. “Yes, love?” He asked.

"We…" Sigrid paused, glanced briefly between her brother and sister, before meeting her father’s gaze again, "We’ve began to notice that… You’re spending a lot more time than usual at work." She stated, and she sounded slightly concerned, and looked it as well. "Is something the matter?"

Bard was quiet, not knowing how to explain himself, how to play off his meeting with his elven friend as a casual, everyday occurrence. But, he was a father—- he had years of practice when it came to sugar-coating certain matters. And so, he simply shook his head and let out a light chuckle. “Nothing is the matter; everything’s alright. I’ve just…” He trailed off, and thought he might as well be as truthful as he could be; in retrospect, if he covered this up with a white lie, his children would be smart enough to pick up on him, seeing through his ruse as though it were a clear window. “I’ve met someone, is all.” He stated, simply.

Sigrid’s mouth formed an ‘Oh’ as she nodded in understanding, and silence fell upon the dinner table, again.

————————————————-

Later on that night, Bard was helping Sigrid with the dishes, and he had a feeling that she would interrogate him further on his rather cryptic response, that he had given to her question earlier that day, while he did so. He did not mind terribly; she was older, and wise beyond her years, she deserved to know more. He also felt better discussing it without Bain and Tilda around, and luckily, they were rather occupied with a game of some sort upstairs, if the noise was any evidence of that.

It was Sigrid who spoke first, as she wiped a dish with a rag rather vigorously. “This person you’ve met…” She began, and Bard paused what he was doing and glanced at her, and his gaze was returned rather quickly. “Who are they?” She asked.

Bard smiled, almost shyly, and he returned to working on the dishes, turning on the lukewarm water in the sink (they were out of hot water, as per usual) as he spoke, “Would you believe me if I said I’ve met an elf?”

Sigrid’s eyes widened, and she set the dish down, so as not to drop it from the startling statement. “An _elf?_ ” She repeated, sounding astonished.

Bard only nodded, and turned off the water, looking at his daughter again. “His name is Thranduil.”

Suddenly, Sigrid’s expression took on that of worry, and Bard couldn’t place why, until she spoke again. “Da…” She began, and concern laced her voice, just as it did earlier during the night. “You are not… In trouble, with them, are you?”

Bard raised an eyebrow, and wondered why Sigrid would ask such a thing. “I don’t believe so?” He answered, confusion clear in his tone, and then, he chuckled, “If I am, then the elves have a very strange way of punishing others.”

Sigrid looked at the floor, and she looked rather timid, for a moment—- her brows were furrowed as though she was internally fighting with herself whether to speak again, and when she did, Bard understood why. “When Ma was around… You…” She trailed off, not daring to continue, lest she sour her father’s mood.

The grin was wiped clean off of Bard’s face, and replaced with a look of mild despair, for he knew that Sigrid was the eldest of his children, and therefore, the one that remembered the most of his late wife. He knew immediately what she was going to say, now, as Bard recalled all of the times that he got intimately close to his beloved, all the times that he sank his teeth into that pretty little neck, not with killing intent, as those bites were unlike any other—- they were laced with love.

He now knew that Sigrid probably understood what he was, to some extent—- maybe only to the extent that she wanted to understand. He let out a sigh, before speaking again.

"The elves… They know something is amiss in their forest," Bard confirmed, "However," He added, and he put a hand on Sigrid’s shoulder, so as to provide her with some sort of reassurance that maybe, he would be alright, "I do not believe that Thranduil knows that I am the cause of that, and I am determined to keep things that way, between he and I…"

Sigrid looked up at her father, and she tried to smile as his reassurance, but that worried look remained plastered on her face. “How do you know?”

Bard chuckled again, feigning happiness and humor to mask his own internal struggle. “He’d have my head, if he knew.”

Sigrid returned his chuckle with a small laugh, if only to ease the worry between them both, and she moved closer to her father, pulling him into an embrace. He returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around his daughter and rubbing her back in gentle, slow circles as they hugged.

"I’ll be fine, Sigrid, don’t you worry about me." He assured her, and the most he got of a reply from her, was a muffled, ‘I know’, as she buried her face in his chest. There was a heaviness on Bard’s heart, in that moment, as he wished he did not have to live a life as a creature who only seemed to bring heartache to those around him.

———————————————————

The following week, when Bard arrived at the river bank, Thranduil was not there as he had been previously. At first, Bard only raised an eyebrow, looking around, before shrugging and getting to his work—- but the slight feeling of worry he had for the elf only grew in magnitude deep in the pit of his belly, as the minutes went by, and the elf remained absent, no sight of those silver locks to be seen.

Bard was starting to wonder if he really had offended Thranduil the week previous, and the elf wished not to see him anymore. He really hoped things would not have to be that way—- however, given the way the elf had been pestering him for the past few weeks, so persistently and without ceasing his advances, he felt as though he would at least arrive to give Bard a chance to apologize; but, maybe the man did not know the elf well enough yet, to determine that.

Bard’s mind flashed to the next horrible scenario that could have befallen the elf, and as he put the last of the barrels onto the barge per usual, he stopped a moment before climbing onto the boat, and he glanced back towards the forest. He knew that those woods were full of all sorts of dangerous creatures, a darkness having fallen upon them, as of late—- but… Thranduil lived in there. If anything, he would be able to fend off whatever terrors had befallen those woods. Wouldn’t he?

As Bard pondered the slight possibility that Thranduil might be in danger, in there, he also pondered whether or not he should delve into the woods, as he had done many times in the past, and go after him. He had his bow with him, and could easily retrieve it from his boat, after all. However, just as he was caught up in his thoughts, a rustling that came from beneath the trees revealed to him that the bargeman would not have to leave the river bank.

Out of the forest, Thranduil stumbled, and Bard immediately noticed he was armed, as if ready for combat. Clad in shining, silver armour, a silver circlet placed upon his head, and he was wielding two Elven blades, one in each hand. He fell to his knees, and appeared to have just gotten out of a fight; but, with what? Bard wondered, and he and the elf exchanged one glance, filled with mutual concern, before a large spider lunged out of the woods, after Thranduil, and Bard swore his heart stopped in his chest.

Thranduil whipped around almost effortlessly, despite how unkempt and exhausted he appeared, and he stopped the spider’s advances with one of his swords, successfully blocking off the attack. However, in the process, he also ended up pinned down to the ground by the spider, his sword providing the only sort of barrier between the creature’s fangs, and his flesh. Bard could not stand idly by and watch his friend struggle against the beast for much longer; despite what he knew of elven strength and combat, he did not believe Thranduil would be able to fend the spider off for very much longer.

"Thranduil!" Bard shouted, as he reached onto his barge for his bow and arrows, "Hang in there, I’ve—-!!" He did not bother to continue his sentence, too occupied with setting his mind on eliminating the foe that was currently straddling the elf he found himself caring so deeply for. Bow in hand, with one swift, and accurately aimed arrow, he shot right through the spider’s head.

The creature let out a strangled noise, before going limp, and falling dead onto the elf, whose arms gave up and fell to each side of him as soon as they saw the opportunity to. Thranduil lay panting beneath the corpse of the dead beast, until Bard ran over to his side and lifted the spider off of him, kneeling down by the elf.

"Are you wounded?" Bard asked, and he tried to mask the worry in his voice, to no avail. He was deeply concerned for the elf, and Thranduil seemed to take notice of this. Bard knew this, from the first words to come from the elf were that of pure denial.

Thranduil sat up straight, pressing his bare hands to the ground, and as he did so, his face contorted into a wince. “Not terribly,” He answered, though his voice betrayed him, as it sounded strained.

The sound of his reply had Bard’s senses going mad, already. As soon as his mind was set on the thought of the elf’s blood, he could smell it, and he was determined to find Thranduil’s wound. He looked the elf up and down. “Show me,” Bard said, against his better judgement—- before he could stop the words from coming, they had already toppled from his mouth.

Thranduil sighed, shut his eyes, and relunctantly he held out his hands to show Bard two nasty scrapes on the palms of both of them. “I’ve also obtained a leg wound,” He states, “But, it is nothing to be worried about. It is but a scratch, I’ve had worse.” He assured.

His words seemed to fly right over Bard’s head, as he was not listening to them, his hearing clouded out by the rest of his heightened senses, and his wide eyes glued onto the droplets of blood seeping out from the wounds on Thranduil’s hands. He could only smell the scent of the elven blood from the distance that he remained from the scrapes, but oh, did he long to close that distance, for the mere smell of it sent Bard’s mind into a frenzy. It was sweet in its scent, and he was willing to bet it tasted like pure starlight, and would send him into euphoria if he had one, just one, mere drop of it. The urge to reach out for the elf’s bare hands, and lick them both clean of the blood that dirtied them, was only amplified by the realization that he had not hunted in weeks.

Indeed, Bard was thirsty. _Very_ thirsty.

The only factor that had Bard anchored down to reality, the only thing that kept him from reverting fully into his more animalistic natured side, was the alarming sound of rustling coming from the forest that Thranduil had just left from. Both Bard and the elf’s heads jerked up, alerted, and their gaze became fixed on whatever was about to emerge from those trees. Thranduil’s gaze hardened, growing colder by the second as he inched his hands towards the blades he had left on either side of him. Meanwhile, Bard was ready, at any moment, to reach for the arrows strapped to his back…

… Both of them let out a mutual sigh of relief, when only a group of Mirkwood elves emerged from the woods. They all looked at Thranduil did, dressed ready for combat, and some looked as though they had just gotten out of said combat; however, they all shared one quality in common, the similar look of a mix of relief, and concern, on their faces, when they set their eyes on Thranduil. All of them—- there must have been about a group of five, or so—- approached the elf as though Bard was nonexistent.

"My lord Thranduil!" One of them exclaimed, and Bard’s brows furrowed as he processed that statement. He then looked at Thranduil, as though to ask ‘What did they just call you?’, but mutual silence had befallen the two as Thranduil only briefly returned Bard’s gaze, with a twinge of worry—- or was it self-consciousness?—- plaguing his features. After that, he directed his glance towards the group of elves approaching him, one of whom had begun helping him to his feet.

"My King, are you alright?" Another elf asked, as he supported Thranduil while the elf—- the Elvenking, stood on his wobbly and weary legs. Bard’s eyes fell down to the ripped fabric of Thranduil’s leggings, and he noticed the leg wound that the elf had mentioned earlier. It was on his right, and it definitely looked as though it was, as he put it, but a scratch—- but to Bard, it smelled like so, so much more, and his mouth watered at the idea of the taste of Thranduil’s starlight blood.

"I am fine," Thranduil assured his kin, but his step betrayed him, as his wounded leg caused him to nearly trip and fall to the ground, if not for the group of elves supporting his every step. Their eyes darted down to the wound on their king, while one of them examined the ones on his hands. Bard watched as they coddled Thranduil and exchanged worried statements among each other in elvish, all the while the elf appearing less than impressed to put his men through such a hard time, and Bard delved deep within himself to find the only humanity he felt that he had left in this moment, in order to do something for Thranduil—- anything, if only to ease his guilty conscience of the thought of feeding off of his elven friend.

"Thranduil—-" He said, though it sounded like a plea as the fellow elves began to lead the king back towards the forest, only to be stopped as Bard called after the Elvenking—- by name, as well. "Wait." He said, and Thranduil looked at him curiously, as Bard removed his raggedy coat, brought some of the fabric of it up to his mouth, and, with his sharp fangs, he bit down and yanked off a section of it. It tore from the worn coat with a sharp ripping noise, and he held the rag out to Thranduil. "Tie this around your leg wound." He offered.

Thranduil eyed the rag suspiciously, and his fellow elves eyed Bard suspiciously, all the while exchanging curious whispers (“Who is that man?” and, “How does he know our king?”) and brewing up a special sort of self-consciousness in Bard—- and they only ceased their whispering when Thranduil accepted the torn rag from Bard with a muttered thanks.

Then, much to Bard’s surprise, Thranduil looked around, as if trying to find something to give Bard in return for his gratitude, though the bargeman asked nothing of his elven friend—- until, finally, he settled for a brooch at his collar; an ornate jewel of an item, that was most likely crafted in the depths of Mirkwood, as it had an unreal beauty to it that only those of elven nature could pull off. Skillfully, he undid the trinket with one hand, and he once unpinned, he placed it into an open palm that Bard offered him, and he enclosed Bard’s fingers around the accessory.

Bard tried to ignore the scent of Thranduil’s blood, and the warm feeling of it against his own skin, as the elf’s palm rubbed onto the back of Bard’s hand. He tried, desperately, to keep himself grounded, as he looked up at Thranduil and shook his head. “I—- I cannot accept this—-” He protested, but he was cut off almost immediately.

"I have plenty more like it." Thranduil interrupted, "Let it be a gift from myself, the Elvenking, to a _friend._ ” He said, and Bard did not know what to be more shocked about—- that Thranduil had finally admitted his title to the lowly bargeman, or that he had apparently called said lowly bargeman a friend, of all things. Bard was at a loss for words, partially for those reasons—- and also, partially because, he feared that if he opened his mouth, it would become glued to the elf’s wounds.

As soon as Thranduil noticed that Bard could offer him no more, in regards to speech, he smirked, and turned on his heel and walked towards the forest as gracefully as ever, despite the mild stumble. All the while, his men treated him as the king he rightfully was—- one carried his blades for him, another carried his cape, so as to prevent it from dragging on the ground, and two more supported him on each side.

Thranduil glanced back at Bard as he departed into the woods, and he spoke; “I offer my gratitude for your help, and I hope that you stay safe, bargeman. There are plenty of horrors to lurk in our Greenwood, as of late. Orcs, spiders…” He paused for a moment, and his gaze turned particularly icy, “ _Blood-drinkers._ ” He stated, and Bard felt himself pale as he watched the elf and his company disappear into the trees, without further word, except for Elvish exchanges between them, as though Thranduil was ordering them in regards of what move to make against the opposing forces, next.

The bargeman stood there, motionless, with Thranduil’s brooch enclosed so tightly in his hand that the ornate patterns and gems on it were probably causing an imprint in the soft skin of his palm. When he was absolutely certain that Thranduil had disappeared, he gritted his teeth in anger, and guilt upon himself, for his actions. As he trudged towards his barge and hopped onto the ship, setting sail as quickly as possible, he recalled the thoughts he had previously had not even moments ago, of feeding off of his friend. Admittedly, the scent of his blood was unlike anything Bard had ever experienced before, and he could only wonder how it tasted if the smell was that amazing—- but these mere thoughts had Bard feeling like a monster. He could not think of Thranduil as prey. He was an elf, and Elvenking, no less, to drink from him would mean to brew a conflict between the Mirkwood elves that he certainly did not need.

And, more importantly, as Bard opened the palm of his hand to look down at the brooch that Thranduil had given him—- a dark gem, surrounded by swirling silvery patterns—- despite that the trinket was laced with the scent of elven blood, Bard realized that Thranduil considered him his friend. Therefore, to drink from him would certainly ruin their relationship, and Bard did not want that, he simply couldn’t stand the thought of it.

On the way back to town, Bard shot an arrow into the forest and skillfully killed a rabbit, stopping his boat and hopping to the forest to take the corpse, and drain its blood into his parched mouth, in hopes of satiating his thirst. It was not satisfying in the least, however, for now that Bard had caught a scent of elven blood, his appetite was ravenous, and there was absolutely no going back.

—————————————————————-

That night, Bard seldom said a word to his children—- brooch clasped tightly in his hand at all times on his journey home, the first thing he did when he returned to his domain by late afternoon (besides exchange a greeting between himself and Sigrid, who was washing dishes as she usually did, around this time of day) was retreat up to his bedroom, and stay there for a long while.

The remaining, vibrant brightness in the sky, kept there by the last few moments of daylight, shone through Bard’s window and into his meager chambers as they dwindled down. They reflected off of the ornate jewel of a brooch that Thranduil had given to him—- the small object remaining a stark contrast towards literally everything else in the bargeman’s bedroom; an elven glow among mortal drabness and simplicity. Bard lay serenely on his bed, examining every detail of the accessory as the light shone onto it, just right.

Bard wondered what to do with it—- until he remembered its true purpose of being attached to clothes, adorning them with a sense of regality as soon as it is worn. He sat up, and fiddled with the latch of the brooch, careful not to damage it (for it looked so, so fragile, but it felt strong and firm in his hand—- he supposed the object carried this similarity with the elves themselves…), before undoing it, and promptly pinning it to his tunic, over his chest, and beating heart.

He looked down at himself, and thought he looked foolish; he was not a man of nobility such as Thranduil—- even though Bard had the blood of the lords of Dale within him, he was not a king; just another poor man, in rags. Besides, he couldn’t possibly wear such a thing outside, in town, regularly; given the living conditions of Laketown, someone would certainly try to rob him of the elven jewel, to sell it for their own purposes. Not to mention, the Master and his spies would certainly give Bard absolute hell over trying to discover where he obtained such an ornate trinket, if they did not confiscate it first, that is.

Still, a small part of Bard liked how it looked on him, and he liked how it felt on him, grinning at the thought of it being a gift from the Elvenking, a token of their friendship. He still ruled out the possibility of wearing it in anything but privately; however, he did want another’s opinion on it. The closest, like-minded individual he could think of, to offer such an opinion, was his daughter, Sigrid, who was just down the stairs.

Without a second thought and, perhaps, against his better judgment given his mood and mindset at the moment, Bard stood up from his bed, and exited his room, headed down the stairs. “Sigrid!” He called, but he was startled to the point of nearly jumping out of his skin, when he received the sound of glass shattering on the floor of the kitchen as a reply. What began as a leisurely walk down the stairs turned nearly into a frantic sprint, as fatherly concern washed over him within moments.

In the kitchen, he found his daughter stood by the sink, and on the floor, the ivory white glass of a plate had been shattered. Bard looked to the floor, then to Sigrid, who appeared to be extremely worried and sad. “I-I’m sorry, Da,” She said, and her voice wavered, “I did not mean to startle you, I just—-“

"Shh, it’s alright," Bard assured, and he walked towards his daughter and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She looked as though she was about to cry, and Bard felt this was the perfectionist in her, feeling guilty for a simple accident. "We all get a bit clumsy every now and then—- it’s just one plate," He offered, but her gaze moved to the broken glass on the floor, and it remained fixed there for a good while. Bard sighed, "Your mother, she was also prone to breaking things. We all are."

When Sigrid raised her eyes to meet her father’s gaze once more, Bard knew that bit of reassurance seemed to be just enough, as Sigrid, deep down, always aspired to be more like her strong mother, as much as Bard objected to this, and insisted she be her own being. She gave Bard a sad smile, before mumbling an apology and looking down at the mess or broken glass on the floor. “I should clean this up…” She said. Without a moment of time wasted, to reaffirm her statement, Sigrid knelt down, over the shards of glass, and reached out to grab them and gather them in her hand, to be disposed of.

However, when she reached for a particularly sharp edge of one of the plate shards, her current state of clumsiness betrayed her in the worst of ways, and her finger made contact with the glass in a manner that pierced her skin quickly and easily, slicing into her right index finger and creating a painful cut that caused her to let out a startled ‘Ow’, hissing through gritted teeth as she retracted her hand, her finger oozing blood. Then, an expression of fear dawned onto her.

Sigrid slowly looked up at Bard, who was looming over her, his breathing suddenly labored as a dark aura overcame him. “Da…” She said, shakily, and the fear was clear in her voice. But that was not enough to stave off the beast inside of Bard. The damage had already been done, and now, as much as they wanted to be able to, neither of them could avoid the inevitable.

He acted slowly, somehow keeping his composure, and kneeling down across from his daughter, reaching out to her wounded hand, which was clasped against her chest almost protectively. The events earlier in the day were rushing back at him, all at once, and his self control was toppling down by the second, as the scent of blood snaked through the air—- and, in a frenzy-induced daze, he imagined it was the scent of the elven blood he so longed for. He grabbed ahold of his daughter’s wrist, and tugged, having it in his clouded mind that he could taste it, sink his teeth into that pretty neck, imagining it would be that of an elf, when he did…

He was only brought back to his right mind when Sigrid retreated, yanking her arm away from Bard’s grasp, and backing away from her own father with her wounded hand hidden from his sight. She cornered herself up against the cabinets behind her. “Da…!” She exclaimed, in an almost-whisper, and it was the fear that laced her voice, as well as the look on her face, that brought Bard back, and he felt disgust and rage at the monster within himself bubbling up, deep inside of him.

He heaved a heavy sigh, and shakily, he stood up, “Oh, _Hell…_ " He muttered, "What have I become?" And an expression of great sadness overcame his face.

Sigrid seemed to take notice of this, as she looked up at her father in despair, and she shook her head slowly. “No, no, Da… I…” She stammered out, shakily standing up as well. She held out her good hand, the one that was not oozing blood, out to him as some sort of reassurance, but for what? She did not know—- and she did not even know if her gesture would work on her grief-stricken father. “Da—- It—- It’s okay—-” She stammered.

Bard was already too far gone in his self loathing to listen to her, any further—- or stay here, in his own home, any longer, for fear he may hurt her. Tears stung the corners of his eye as he reeled away from her, and his breathing grew heavy, near panic levels of hyperventilation. “What have I done…?!” He asked, to no one in particular. Sigrid, now standing once more, opened her mouth to protest, but Bard had already turned away from her, headed towards the door, muttering, “I need to get out of here, I—- you—- I-It’s not safe with me here!”

He did not even spare Sigrid another glance, for fear it may yet again bring out his animalistic nature, as he fled from his own home, out the door, and towards the only place he knew he could let the monster within him loose, in something as close to peace as he was ever going to get—- the forest. He only barely registered Sigrid’s worried protests, desperately assuring him that he had done no harm to her, as he left her behind, without further word.

————————————————————-

The first thing that Bard did when he reached the innermost depths of the Mirkwood, was collapse to the forest floor onto his knees, out of tiredness from running for so long. The second thing he did, was finally allow the tears that he had been holding back since the moment he fled his home, and possibly even longer than that, to roll down his face, and hit the ground in droplets.

He curled himself up against a tall, spindly tree, and against the roots and the leaves on the floor, in an attempt to make himself as small and nonexistent as possible, for that was all he wished to be, right now. Silently into the night, with no other man around, as far as he could tell, he allowed himself to silently weep as he hid his face against his knees, his form shaking softly from the sobs that wracked him, as well as the ones he tries to stifle back, for the sake of remaining somewhat quiet.

He did not care if any of the fell creatures that Thranduil had warned him about came after him, and tore him limb from limb, right about now—- for, as he recalled, he was one of those creatures. He did not care if the sound of his crying echoed into the night, and caught the attention of those ravenous spiders that he had just faced off against, earlier that day. If anything, he felt as though he deserved to be put to death—- he may have been born with mostly mortal blood, but the monster within him had almost tried to hurt Sigrid, his own daughter. He felt unworthy of anyone’s love, or care, if he was just going to view them as a meal, if he was only there to put them in danger, whether he meant to or not…

And so, he remained leaning against the tree, as a small figure in the deep, dark woods, for a good long while, until the sadness slowly, but surely, came to a steady end, and he was only left with small, shaky breaths. However, when the breakdown did end, something entirely different took over, and it all started upon catching a whiff of the most delicious scent.

Slowly, he raised his head from where it had rested against his curled up knees, and he sat up straighter so as to get a better smell of that delectable euphoria. He knew it was blood unlike any other—- an elven scent, for certain, and he shuddered out of sheer want for the taste of it. He stood up, despite his head aching from the weight of his sadness, and his eyes red and face still tear-stained, he had no room for emotions within his being—- no room for common sense, or human decency, right now. He only had room for a thirst, a deep burning sensation in the back of his throat, unlike any other that he had felt before.

He quickly scaled the tree he had previously been leaning against, and, effortlessly, he lunged himself across the forest canopy with his vampiric strength, hopping from treetop to treetop as though his path were memorized. In truth, it was his animalistic instinct, as well as his nose akin to a bloodhound’s excellent abilities, that was leading him down the path towards where he would find his prey. All the while, the scent grew stronger, and Bard salivated at the mere thought of being able to sink his teeth into even more of its ecstasy.

And, all the while, Bard’s humanity had managed to keep quiet and avoid protesting against this side of him, as it usually did, until the blood-drinker came upon the most peculiar setting. He landed upon the sturdy branches of one of the trees, leaves rustling down to the forest floor, as he came to a stop and hid, all the while taking in the sight before him.

A large palace, that he could only assume belonged to the Mirkwood elves, lay in all its splendor before him; and Bard was amazed at the fact that, unlike most other palaces, instead of laying in stark contrast to its surroundings, the entire structure somehow blended in with the forest trees so easily, as though to really and truly emphasize that the elves were one and the same with everything in this forest—- perhaps, save for its dark and vicious intruders.

Upon closer inspection, Bard soon realized why his nose had led him to this location. From his perch on the nearby tree, he could spy a rooftop garden, with plenty of beautiful, vibrantly colored blooms to be seen as far as the area stretched. Tending to these flowers and plants, was an elf—- one who, at first, Bard could not recognize, until his keen vampire eyes caught sight of the bandages wrapped around both of the elf’s hands, as he held an ornate watering jar, and poured nourishment onto the flowers before him.

"Thranduil," Bard whispered under his breath—- but, in his clouded state of mind, he seemed to be forgetting that he was stood on a tree branch not more than twenty feet away from the elf—- and elves, with their pointed ears, had very keen hearing. The elf whipped around to look behind him, his glance following him, eyes wide, and Bard barely had a moment to hide before he was found out.

Now, his heart beat so fast in his chest that it threatened to break out, and the blood-drinker struggled to compose himself. All the while, the humanity within him was protesting against his choice to make his elven friend into prey, reiterating that Thranduil was, in fact, his friend, and to desire his body in such a manner would mean the downfall for both of them, the possible death of the Elvenking, and a whole lot of guilt on Bard’s part that he simply did not need to deal with.

Bard was in too deep to turn back, now—- as Thranduil caught on to his presence, he approached him, and the closer he got, the more strong his scent became. It was driving Bard mad, he _wanted_ it—- he wanted to _feed,_ it had been far too long since he’s had decent blood. He needed Thranduil’s neck, and he needed it _now_ , and therefore, he would shut away the very last of his human decency, and thus he decided to make himself known to the elf.

When Bard peeked around the corner of the tree that he had kept himself hidden behind, he noticed Thranduil was pacing around the garden, his gaze cold as ice, and he stood, readied for self-defense combat. Bard slowly emerged from his hiding spot as gently as possible, realizing he would have to appear more friendly if he was going to lure Thranduil in—- rather than drive the elf away—- and also, he did this knowing that he had to if he was going to avoid being seriously injured by an unsuspecting elf.

"Thranduil!" Bard whispered again, a little bit louder, and he was now fully emerged from his hiding spot, stood on the tree’s branch with his hand firmly grasping the trunk, so as not to fall. This time, he caught Thranduil’s attention, and the elf’s gaze darted to the man, softening immediately as he registered who it was.

”Bard?" He said, in almost disbelief, as the bargeman effortlessly hopped from the tree and onto the rooftop in a manner that a normal man could never pull off in his limited years on this earth, and despite Thranduil being taken aback by the sudden stunt, stepping back a few paces, he still kept his eyes fixed on Bard, albeit, he looked as though he felt wary of the entire situation, as though it simply could not be true. "How did you get here? Why did you…" He trailed off, not knowing what question to ask, for there were far too many.

Bard moved in closer, and with every step he took forward, Thranduil seemed to take a step back, wary of his friend to have made this odd, dangerous journey, for an unknown purpose—- for the moment, at least. “I wanted to see you.” Bard said, in a dark, lust-filled tone of voice. Of course, he left out important tidbits of information, such as the fact that he had Thranduil’s scent on his mind all day, and his own nose had betrayed him by leading him right to the elf, as though feeding off of his pretty neck was unavoidable, written in the stars as their destiny, the two of them.

Thranduil’s gaze wavered, as he looked Bard up and down. His eyebrows furrowed, and although his gaze remained composed and fairly void of emotion, through the eyes of a hunter such as Bard, he could tell that the elf had absolutely no idea how to feel, and he was clearly struggling to articulate this. “The forest, I warned you, it is dangerous. Why would you come here? I could have easily escorted you, or I could have come to Laketown, myself, if you wanted to see me so desperately…” He trailed off, and his eyes darted to examine Bard’s figure again, before noticing a particular quality about him, and meeting eyes with him. “You are wearing the brooch.” He stated.

Bard smiled, and he didn’t care that he was baring his fangs to the elf—- the outcome of this encounter would likely involve them, one way or another. “Do you like that?” He asked, in a teasing manner, and he reveled in Thranduil’s subtly submissive reactions, keeping his elven stare fixed on the ground out of what may have been shyness. “You like the idea of me keeping a little piece of you, with me?” Bard teased, and he was enjoying how easy it was to toy with the elf and his emotions—- despite the apparent lackthereof—- and nothing was stopping Bard from doing this, now that the demon within him had come out to play.

The elf did not step away from Bard any more, instead he averted his gaze as he allowed the man to close in on him, and softly, he nodded. “It suits you.” He murmured, quietly, and he hardly even flinched as Bard was now mere inches away from him, invading his personal boundaries in a manner that they had not done before, in the past.

The blood-drinker kept his eyes fixed on Thranduil, as he reached for the elf. His hand came to rest under the Elvenking’s chin, as he tilted his gaze to meet his, once more, and Thranduil did not flinch away from the contact. He only met Bard’s dark, lust-filled gaze with his arctic blue eyes. “Thranduil,” Bard said, to fully grasp the elf’s attention, and by now, he was mere inches away from the other—- so close, that he could practically smell the blood moving beneath the elf’s skin with every heartbeat, “I want more from you tonight, than this brooch.” Bard stated.

Thranduil had no words, for a moment, and he only shuddered before speaking, “I… do not understand the advances, that you are trying to make.” He stated, staring at the floor almost shyly. If Bard were to turn his head to get a better look at those cold, blue eyes, he would be able to see some warmth in them—- for Thranduil’s gaze had darkened whether he meant to or not, his pupils dilated.

It was when he was watching the Elvenking’s every movement, and the innocence behind his gaze, that Bard’s humanity reared its conscientious head once more, and he felt torn. He wanted so badly to feed from Thranduil, but now, he could assume that he had full confirmation that his elven friend had genuinely no idea of who he really was—- and it pained Bard to betray him in that manner, and more importantly, to have such a strong, insatiable need to do so. What kind of man was he, to want to hurt someone who he had come to adore?

But the scent of Thranduil’s blood mere inches from the vampire’s face, the sight of his neck so open and exposed, so ready to be bitten into, it was all too tempting. Bard’s mind was swirling with conflicting emotions and thoughts and intentions all around, he was confused as to what move he should make next, and he and Thranduil stood so close to each other in mutual silence, averting each others gazes, as the two of them were at a loss of what to do next. Bard contemplated running for it without another word, and avoiding the elf from here on out—- but that had proven to be difficult, considering his very nose had lead him here. And besides, the Elvenking’s lips, so full of that sweet, red blood, were mere inches away from his, and Bard longed to close the distance between them.

So, he took the plunge, and moved forward just enough for his lips to ghost over Thranduil’s, and through the thin barrier of skin he could taste the elven blood. When the elf let out the tiniest of moans against the gentle contact, Bard could no longer resist—- he moved in even closer, pressing their bodies together, and their lips into a harsh, lust-filled kiss, as though the two had wanted this for a long while.

Thranduil’s hands fumbled for a moment, before they made their way to the back of Bard’s head. The many rings he adorned on his fingers, despite the bandages he currently wore, became tangled in Bard’s dark, messy locks, but neither of them could care less—- let alone Bard himself, who fell into the caress as he kissed the elf deeply, and kept his hands around his waist, to keep him in place.

And as Bard fell deeper and deeper into the kiss, which, all the while, was being mutually returned by Thranduil—- the old flame of desire and adoration that he had within him was slowly being rekindled, and he found his mind drifting further and further away from the idea of feeding as the kiss went on. He felt, for a moment, that if he could just stay in the Elvenking’s arms forever, the vampire inside of him would die off, and he would not have to sink his fangs into another living being ever again—- he would never have to be seen as a monster to anyone, ever. And maybe, just _maybe_ , things could be alright.

And things _were_ alright. That is, until, Bard’s fangs accidentally nicked the thin lining of skin that kept the blood inside of Thranduil’s bottom lip, and the elf reeled back against the sudden pain that was inflicted upon him with a startled “Ah!”, and he brought a hand up to his mouth to keep the blood from seeping down his lip, but the damage was already there, evidenced by the unmistakable scent of starlight blood filling the air once more. The blood was already on Bard’s tongue, and, for the second time that night, everything was all _wrong_ , all over again.

Thranduil carefully lowered his hand, and when Bard noticed that he had blood on his fingers, the man promptly grabbed the elf’s wrist in a grip that may have been too tight for his liking, if the pained look on Thranduil’s face as Bard grasped ahold of him was anything to go by. Nevertheless, keeping his gaze fixed on Thranduil, he brought the elf’s long, thin fingers up to his mouth, and he seductively licked the blood off of them, a simple movement that made the elf shiver and blush. And, once Bard had tasted that much of his honey-sweet blood, there was absolutely no turning back, no running away, this time.

The vampire lunged in for another kiss, somehow managing to catch the Elvenking by surprise—- something he had not managed to do, until now; but, in retrospect, every time he had encountered the elf in the past, Bard had been a normal, human being. Now, he was something new, and different, and as he suckled onto Thranduil’s bloodied bottom lip, all the while eliciting small, hushed moans out of the elf, Bard gradually moved away from the elf’s lips and continued to place kisses all along the path he was headed for—- down his chin, across his neck, until he settled in the crook of it, and he could almost taste the pulse beneath the pale skin before him. All the while, Thranduil held onto Bard desperately, his eyes shut, and his face flushed.

Thranduil shivered, and grasped onto Bard as the man licked against his pulse—- the elf dug his fingers into Bard’s back, as though if he were to let go, he would certainly shatter into a million pieces. Noticing how frazzled Bard had gotten the Elvenking to be, he was almost hesitant to bite down, the very last bit of his conscience remembering that the elf before him was someone that he was supposed to care for—- not someone he was supposed to be ravaging, right now. But, alas, Bard was too close, that the last bit of his humanity may as well have lost this battle. Now, the only thing he could do was hope for the best, although, even that was rather far-fetched of a hope.

"Thranduil," He breathed out, his lips mere inches from the elf’s beautiful, porcelain neck, "Please, forgive me for this." He offered, practically whispering, but knowing well that the elf would pick up on it. Before he could even allow the elf to say anything as a reply, Bard opened his mouth, feeling his fangs longing to be sunken into the flesh before him, and without further hesitation, he bit down.

Startled, Thranduil let out a strangled moan, before attempting to speak, “W—- What are you—-” Was all the elf could manage to choke out, before he felt his blood draining from the newly made puncture wounds in his neck, and he began to struggle against Bard, to no avail—- the man’s animalistic strength kept him firmly in place as he drank from him, and oh, was Bard in heaven.

He felt as though, Thranduil’s blood was what he had been waiting for, all his life, craving to an extent that he had not been wary of in years previous. It was nothing like any other blood he had ever tasted—- it was like the finest of wines, and the most delicate of nectars. Honey sweet and warm, it slid down his throat so easily as he lapped up the blood while it seeped from the wound, in earnest. Bard’s eyes were shut, his brows furrowed, he was in absolute ecstasy, to have his thirst quenched by such a delectable taste, unlike anything that he thought he would ever have the privilege of drinking.

And he stayed like this for awhile, drinking from Thranduil until the thirst had been driven away just enough for himself and his conscience to seep back into his mind, and it was then that regret began to dawn on him. As his senses returned to him, he noticed that the elf’s struggling was beginning to grow weak and limp, in his arms, and the few strangled moans that came from him sounded small, and weary. Bard’s eyes shot open, as full realization of his actions filled his mind.

He pulled himself from Thranduil quickly, blood dripping down his mouth as he let go of the Elvenking and backed away from him before he were to cause any further damage. Thranduil, who was somehow still standing, pulled a hand up to the right side of his neck, where Bard had bitten into him—- and he grasped tightly over the wound as soon as he was set free of the vampire’s grasp. He was wobbly on his feet, and when he met Bard’s worried gaze, the man could have sworn that he’d never seen what must have been fear, so clearly written on the elf’s face.

"You…" That was all Thranduil managed to get out, before his eyes fluttered shut, and he began to faint—- first, falling to his knees, then, to the floor, right at Bard’s feet. As he lay there, all the while, blood seeped out between his slender fingers, from the wound on his neck.

 _You monster._ Bard’s stomach sank, his heart grew heavy and tears brimmed at his eyes, as he knew Thranduil’s one word did not need any continuation. It was inevitable. He looked down at the Elvenking, who was definitely out cold, and he felt nauseated at the immense amounts of guilt, and remorse for his actions, that flooded into his system. He had become the very beast that he feared, and he had hurt someone who was supposed to have trusted him, to have considered him a _friend_ —- which was something that the bargeman-turned-vampire couldn’t say he had possessed in a long, long while. It was ruined, all at once, and he felt awful, for that.

He only shakily knelt down towards the fallen Elvenking, and hesitantly, he reached over to grab the elf’s wrist, and feel for his pulse. It still lingered beneath his skin, but with the amount of blood that he had lost, it was no doubt that he’d passed out. However, just because Thranduil was not dead yet, did not mean that Bard could feel any of the guilt ease from his weary being, for his actions were unforgivable, in his mind. Tears began to fall freely down the bargeman’s face before he could realize it, and he found himself undoing the brooch that remained on his tunic, for it felt heavy on his chest as he began to feel very unworthy of it.

He removed the brooch, and placed it gently onto Thranduil’s free hand, encircling the elf’s fingers around it. “I’m sorry…” Bard murmured, and he was about to burst into sobs, until he picked up on the distant sound of footsteps walking frantically up the stairs, and the sounds of panicked elvish words.

Bard cursed under his breath, knowing that the other elves in the palace must have heard of their king’s struggles. Certainly, they would want Bard’s head if they found him here, blood dripping down his chin as clear evidence of what sort of monster he was—- and for a moment, he figured he may as well let them have it. For his sins, he certainly deserved to be put to death—- and if it were not for the fact that Bard had three children who could not afford to be disgraced, and then orphaned, by their father, then he would have not fled into the night, once more.

As he escaped into the trees without another glance behind him, he could hear the worried murmurs of elven guards surround their fallen, bloodied king.

—————————————————————-

Bard was absolutely dreading the following week, when he would have to emerge from the depths of his chambers to operate the barge and retrieve the barrels once more—- and possibly, meet with the Elvenking who he was almost certain resented him by now. His stomach turned at the mere thought, anxiety clouding up his thoughts, and so, Bard refused to leave his bedroom for seven whole days, ashamed and wishing he could sleep away the events that had taken place that night.

All the while, Sigrid brought him his meals, and every now and then, he could hear Bain and Tilda conversing in hushed whispers outside of his room, about whether or not he would be alright, and if they could cheer him up, somehow. One morning, on the day that Bard was supposed to emerge into the real world to return to his work, while his children were outside contemplating ways to lift his spirits, Sigrid knocked on his door—- he knew it was Sigrid, because the knocking was not too loud, but not too soft, either, and it sounded familiar and practiced enough to be his eldest.

He groaned, and hid under the bedsheets. “Enter,” He said, groggily.

Sigrid hesitantly walked through the door, and closed it behind her just before Bain and Tilda could peek in to examine the state of affairs with their father. Sigrid sat on his bedside, and placed something on the nightstand that he faced opposite from. “Breakfast, for you,” She said.

Bard mumbled a half-hearted thank you, and Sigrid groaned angrily—- he could practically hear her roll her eyes out of exasperation. He looked up at her, wincing slightly as the bright daylight from his window crept into the corner of his vision.

She returned his glance, and sighed. “You need to get up, and work,” She said, and he groaned for the millionth time that day, and hid himself beneath the bedsheets again. Sigrid, in return, gave an exasperated sigh, and promptly yanked the sheets off of him, exposing her father. “Da, I don’t know what happened, a week ago,” She began, “I know that you were not yourself, and I will admit, I was afraid. But after you left, I do not know the events that may have transpired, out in the woods.” She looked down at him, and they shared a mutual, worried glance, as if neither of them knew how to fix what had been done. “I just know that you cannot hide from it forever…” Sigrid concluded, and Bard lay on the bed, shielding his eyes ever so slightly from the light of day, as he allowed his daughter’s words to sink in, slowly.

With that, Bard sat up from his bed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it as if he decided against his words. He sighed, shook his head, “I know, love. I know, I just—- I—-” And soon his voice was breaking, and fresh tears made it to his eyes, but he averted his gaze from Sigrid as well as he could—- it was unbecoming of a father to cry in front of his child. “I—- He—— He must think me a monster, now.” He stammered out.

Sigrid tilted her head, “Your elf, Da?” She asked, “Why would you think—-“

"I-I bit him."

Sigrid was taken aback by these words, and she looked away, giving a quiet ‘oh’. Meanwhile, Bard was shaking from the sobs he was trying desperately to hold back.

"I did not want to, believe me—- I just, I, oh, Hell!" He stood up suddenly and angrily, still fighting the tears, "There is no fixing this!" He said, his gaze fixed out the window, and away from Sigrid. If he were to look at her, his eyes would dart to the bandage on her right index finger, and he would only be filled with more disgust, at himself. So, he averted his eyes, and sighed shakily, "There is no fixing _me…_ ”

Sigrid looked up at him for a moment, a little bit afraid that he was going to break something in anger—- but she knew her father was not like that, and so, she offered a shrug in reply. “True. But there is no running from it, either.” She offered, and that was all she said. She knew better than to spoon-feed him pointless optimism, or try to sink to his level of depression if only to have him listen to her. Sigrid tried to offer comfort in the most neutral way she possible could—- by remaining realistic.

Bard turned around to face her, astonishment lacing his features at such a reply, for his daughter truly was wise before her years. He then looked at the floor, and relaxed his stature as he allowed a few tears to fall freely down his face.

Sigrid could not sit idly by while her father was so emotionally compromised, wondering what kind of daughter she would be if she left him like this. She stood up slowly and gently, so as to show that she meant no harm to him, and she walked around the bed to face his opposite side. She placed her hand on his cheek, the very hand that had a bandage around the finger that she had cut that evening, and Bard flinched at the contact at first, before nuzzling into it the simple gesture, the disgust subsiding very slowly.

Sigrid smiled up at him. “I do not think you are a monster, Da,” She said, “You are just a victim of unfortunate circumstances, and I think Thranduil will know that. Elves are smart.” She swiped at a few of the tears running down her father’s face, her comforting smile unwavering.

Bard nodded into her touch, only moving away to wipe the tears from his face. “You may be right.” He said, “I’ve got to face him, or else he may very well come to face me.” He looked at the floor, and his lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, “Persistent bastard, he is…” And he imagined, for a moment, Thranduil arriving at Laketown, if only to interrogate Bard—- and, as much as that possibility brought him anxiety, he also found humorous the idea of the townspeople being in a state of near panic from the Elvenking and his entourage arriving in their drab town.

Sigrid giggled at the remark, before pulling her father into a comforting embrace, of which he returned, without hesitation. “Go to him,” Sigrid murmured against his chest, and he decided that he would.

————————————————————————

Bard had arrived late to work due to his emotional outburst—- late enough, that he barely made it to the river bank just in time for the barrels to be rolling down the rushing waters. He had to get to work quickly, if he did not want to have barrels floating out to the parts of the river where he could not very easily retrieve them—- and so he did.

However, all the while as he worked, fear riddled the back of his mind—- fear that Thranduil told his men of the bargeman’s true nature, after he had fled from him, and now if he dared to turn around as he placed barrel after barrel onto his boat, he would be met with an arrow or two, mere inches away from his face. His fear was only eased by a little bit when minutes passed, and he had still not been put to death.

But he hadn’t caught sight of Thranduil yet, either. Another fear began to brew in him, that the Elvenking was truly disgusted with him, and no longer wished to befriend a monster. Albeit, this was the more safe-sounding fear, compared to being brutally slain by elven blades for his actions against the king—- but the thought of never seeing Thranduil again might have frightened him even moreso than anything else.

And that was why, despite the potential danger to emerge from the Mirkwood forest on that particular day, Bard felt a great sense of relief wash over him when he heard rustling noises from the trees behind him, and he turned away from his boat to be met with the sight of the Elvenking, clad in the finest of silver robes per usual, and wearing a deep red scarf around his neck. At the sight of the scarlet cloth, Bard also felt a sense of worry overcome him, knowing well that the Elf could be very, _very_ cross with him.

That was why, as Thranduil approached him slowly and gracefully, Bard backed up against his barge and glanced around the vicinity once more, to determine once and for all if any elves were going to spring from the trees and attack him. Rather quickly, Thranduil seemed to pick up on this, and he spoke to ease Bard’s worries.

"Fear not, bargeman," He said, now standing a mere few feet away from Bard, "It is but you and I here. You should know that, however," He continued, with a smirk, "I believe it was you that said, if an elf had wanted your head, he’d have had it, by now?" He asked.

Bard feigned a chuckle at Thranduil, but he still felt uneasy with this interaction. Why was the elf not attacking him? After he nearly killed him? If he remembered the events of that night, certainly he would have whipped out a blade, and cut Bard’s throat in half, by now—- and that begged the question, did Thranduil remember anything?

Bard was about to open his mouth to ask, but it seemed as though he was particularly transparent to Thranduil today, who seemed to be reading his mind with ease as he spoke. “I do recall what you did to me, a mere seven nights ago…” The elf stated, and he raised his hands up to the red cloth around his neck, loosening it just enough to reveal the two puncture wounds where Bard’s fangs had been. “How can I not? You leave quite a mark.” And Bard’s heart fluttered ever so slightly at the sight of that wound—- _his_ mark, on Thranduil, as though the elf now rightfully belonged to him. But, the bargeman also felt awful, given the circumstances that had caused him to place that mark onto the elf’s neck in the first place.

It was now that Bard finally managed to get some words out, rubbing his hand against his head to ease his stress as he began to stammer out, “Listen I—- I did not mean, I was…” He sighed angrily, and finally settled for a simple, “I am truly sorry,” And he continued speaking, averting his gaze from the Elvenking for fear of feeling judged, “I understand if you loathe me, by now.”

There was silence between the two of them, until finally, Thranduil shook his head in protest, all the while, his cold stare fixed on Bard. “No,” He said, “No, you do not understand, because I do not hate you.” He stated simply.

Bard looked up at him, amazement most likely written all over his face. “You… What?” He asked.

Thranduil approached him, and was soon much closer to the bargeman than he had anticipated having him be, on this particular day—- especially given the past events, he was certainly under the impression that he would only be met with disgust, on the Elvenking’s behalf. Bard watched intently as the elf reached beneath his robe with one hand, and Bard cringed at the thought of him pulling out a dagger, still all too suspicious of these interactions, but much to the bargeman’s surprise, Thranduil pulled out a tightly wrapped, raggedy looking cloth. It looked like it had something wrapped in it, and it also looked like something that Thranduil would not have previously owned.

As realization dawned onto Bard, he realized that it was not something Thranduil previously owned, indeed—- it was the section of the bargeman’s coat that he himself had torn, to offer Thranduil as a bandage for his wound. As the elf offered it to Bard, he held out his hands to accept it, but he was still confused. “I—- I do not understand, why do you return this to me?” He asked, and although his question was not worded all too clearly, Thranduil seemed to understand it almost perfectly.

"Look inside," He said, and he urged Bard to unwrap the rag—- and, so he did, and the bargeman’s eyes widened at what he saw, as did his heart ache.

"This is…" He murmured, as he lifted the trinket from its wrapping, which fell down to the ground, and was discarded into the breeze. He held it up to the light—- it was the very same brooch that the Elvenking had given him, as a token of their bond, and it was also the very same one that Bard had returned to him that night, that he attacked him, for he felt unworthy of having it in his possession, after what he had done. He looked at Thranduil, puzzled, "I—- I returned this to you, because," He stammered, "Because, you—- you were supposed to _hate_ me. Why would you—-?”

"Because," Thranduil interrupted, hushing Bard immediately, "I do not hate you, as I have said. And this,” He gestured to the brooch, “Is proof of that.”

Bard was at a loss for words, he had absolutely no idea how to express all the intense emotions he was feeling now—- he felt as though he could cry from happiness and relief, but he also felt like he was fresh out of tears to offer. Instead, he just let out a shaky sigh, and went in for an embrace—- but he was surprised and slightly taken aback when the Elvenking flinched away from his physical contact. “I don’t… Have I…” Bard managed out, as he backed up a considerable distance from the elf worry and despair filling his being again, “You are cross with me.” He concluded.

Thranduil nodded, and a twinge of hurt made its way onto his features. “That night, you…” He sighed, possibly wondering how to put his words, before looking Bard straight in the eye and deciding to get right to the point. “You kissed me.” He said.

Bard looked at the ground, a blush creeping onto his face as he averted his gaze. “I did.” He confirmed, not even bothering to deny it, for the elf’s memory seemed to be all too vivid. Bard now realized that, perhaps, his advance was unwanted, although he did not feel as though it was, that night…

His suspicions were only confirmed when Thranduil continued speaking. “I realize, you did not mean what I thought you meant,” He said, and he sounded the tiniest bit hurt, heartbroken, even, “I understand you only did that to lure me in, to make me into your prey. Therefore, if you are to apologize for any of your actions, from that night,” He said, and Bard looked up at him, absolutely crushed at the look of pain on the Elvenking’s face, “Please, do apologize for that. For leading me on.”

Bard felt awful, that he had put his friend under such an impression—- the impression that he could not hold desire for him beyond that of a predator and his prey. Moreover, he had absolutely no idea that Thranduil may have harbored some sort of affection for him—- but, if he did, then Bard pondered his willingness to return them. He was not sure if he could, upon first consideration, but then, he thought of the feelings that he felt when he put his lips against the Elvenking’s, and how safe, and utterly grounded he felt with him… He knew, then, that he had to ease the elf’s mind.

"Wait, Thranduil," Bard said, reaching out towards the elf, and grasping onto his shoulder, catching his attention. Thranduil’s gaze was fixed on him again, and as it was, Bard struggled for words."No, no, it… It is not like that. It is not what you think. I…" He managed out, and all the while Thranduil raised an eyebrow at him, but he listened as Bard tried to speak. "I felt something, when I did that. I felt like, things could be alright, again," He said, and he dared to lean his head onto the tall elf’s shoulder—- the other seemed to accept this gesture, snaking a hand into Bard’s hair and rubbing his head in a soothing manner. All the while, Bard continued, speaking now against the Elvenking’s embrace. "I felt as though… I would not have to be a monster."

"You will never be a monster to me.” Thranduil assured him, “You are someone who I can call my friend. I... Have very, very few of those.” He admitted solemnly, and he embraced Bard fully, wrapping his arms around him in a protective and reassuring manner, something that the man needed desperately from the elf, right now. Bard’s sturdy arms snaked around Thranduil’s thin waist in return, and he pressed their bodies up against each other, as close as they would be.

Bard smiled against the contact, his eyes shut as a feeling of serenity that he had not been welcomed with in a long while, overcame him. Yes, this, this was right. It was how he felt before his love had passed away, how she offered him the very same reassurance that Thranduil had given him, just then—- just what Bard needed to hear, that he was not a monster, that he would never be a monster, and that he was loved and adored for who he was. True, he was still unsure of what he and the elf had now, what sort of relationship this was, exactly, and he did not know fully of Thranduil’s motives regarding him, just yet—- Bard only knew that he could stay like this forever, in the elf’s surprisingly warm embrace, if it were possible. He would not choose any other fate, for himself.

The two of them stayed like that for a little while, in silence, until Thranduil spoke again. “However,” He began, breaking the silence and glancing down towards Bard, who remained in his arms, “I do not take kindly to you terrorizing the fauna of my forest.” He stated, in a serious tone of voice.

Bard chuckled against Thranduil’s form, and then moved away to glance up at him. “What do you suppose I drink from?” Bard offered as a retort, his old self and snide nature beginning to return to him, “You?" He said, in jest.

Thranduil seemed to take his offer seriously, however, his gaze emotionless and unwavering, but so very telling of his thoughts, his intentions. All the humor was then wiped from Bard’s face, and he looked taken aback as realization dawned onto him, all at once.

"Wait, really?" The bargeman asked, and Thranduil nodded without any hesitation at all.

"You cannot deny that the taste of my blood is unlike any other, can you? It was satisfying to you, was it not?" He asked, and Bard could only nod to the truthful words, to which, Thranduil placed a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing it gently, and Bard wanted to sink into that touch as the elf’s pure velvet voice hit his ears, with a rather startling statement. "I propose you drink from me regularly. We see each other often enough, and I cannot have my friend die of thirst." He stated, matter-of-factly.

Bard’s brows furrowed, and the worry returned to him as he stared at the ground again, despite leaning ever so slightly into Thranduil’s soothing touch. “Do you trust me enough not to kill you?” He asked, gently and shyly, almost in a whisper.

Thranduil could only let out a low, melodious chuckle, and he offered the bargeman a smirk to lighten the mood. “You practically ravaged me the other night, and yet, you somehow did not kill me.” He said, and he leaned closer to Bard, so as to whisper into his ear and send shivers up and down the man’s spine, “If you are able to pull that off, I trust you not to kill me when you are in your right mind, when your thirst has been tamed.” He whispered in a low, almost lustful tone.

Bard met with Thranduil’s gaze, and he could not deny there was a mutual, mischievous twinkle in both of their eyes. He grinned, “Drinking from you was like drinking the sweetest of starlight, fresh out of the night sky.” He said, and he leaned in to place a chaste kiss onto Thranduil’s perfectly sculpted cheekbones, and then another.

He could feel Thranduil grin against his lips. “Would you like to taste it, again?” He asked teasingly, and Bard could only nod eagerly, despite not knowing if the elf was being serious in his inquiry, or not. He would always say yes, to such delectable blood.

The former seemed to be true, as Thranduil’s long, beautiful fingers crept behind Bard’s head once more, and he guided him towards the crook of his neck, over the old wounds that Bard had left there a mere few days ago, and the bargeman felt something inside himself setting aflame at how so tantalizingly close he was, once again, to Thranduil’s pulse. He was not terribly thirsty right then and, yet, somehow, the mere sight of the elf’s neck reared a longing burn in the back of Bard’s throat, and he knew what he had to do, having been left with no choice but to give in.

The elf shut his eyes, “Drink,” He said, and it was not an offer, it was a command.

Bard obliged, a grin snaking across his lips, before he bit down into the flesh of the elf, _his_ elf, without hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> i am barduil trash wow. hope you guys liked it tho u_u i saw you were asking for it for awhile.  
> 


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